


Hope Floats

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, F/F, Female Relationships, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has never known anyone like Mya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Floats

**Author's Note:**

> So Honey_Wheeler and Jal80 extended the challenge that I write a story in under 800 words. I failed. This is 819. I assume they'll forgive me.

Sansa has never known anyone like Mya. At first she thinks her new friend’s easygoing manner is a result of being a bastard, of being free of the burden of bearing the name of a house as old as Westeros itself. But then Sansa remembers Jon Snow did not have this lightness in him, and, if it was a side effect of bearing a bastard’s name, Sansa failed as well for the Stone that followed her false name did nothing to alleviate the pressure from her shoulders. Then Sansa thinks perhaps it is just the way of the Eyrie; Myranda Royce is light as well, and the Vale has been untouched by war. They have not seen what Sansa has seen, do not understand how much there is to fear. _Fear is for the winter_ , Old Nan used to say, and Sansa thinks of it now as cold wind works its way through the cracks in the stone, sending a chill through her bones, gooseflesh rising on her arms.

But it is none of those things, Sansa finally decides. There is lightness to Mya that simply exists, and the envy Sansa has is something ferocious. Mya claims that King Robert was her father, and Sansa can see the physical resemblance; but more than that, she can see King Robert and even Lord Renly in the way Mya’s eyes crinkle with laughter, in the way her laughter echoes and her happiness seems to be a living thing. She may answer to the name Stone, but Sansa thinks she is more Baratheon than any of King Robert’s trueborn children. It makes her think of Jon Snow and how he was the only of her father’s son to look like a Stark, the only one who seemed to have her father’s serious manner. Oh, how she wished for just a moment she could see Jon and look upon what little bit of her home still exists.

Mya asks her one day for tales of her life before coming to the Eyrie, of the Fingers and the septas, and Sansa hates to lie. It isn’t until she is stumbling over a description of a motherhouse that Sansa sees the glint in Mya’s eyes, that she understands Mya knows it is all a lie. She keeps speaking because Petyr told her she must never forget she is Alayne Stone, but Mya is not as blind as the others. Sansa tells her false stories every time Mya asks for them, and the impulse to tell her the truth, to have a true friend again, nearly overpowers her some days.

One afternoon Sansa accompanies Mya on a walk, eager to be free of Sweetrobin if only for an hour’s time. They sit on a hillside, sharing a skin of sour wine, when Mya points in the distance. “My father and I used to play there when I was small. He said it was his most favorite place in the Vale.”

Sansa nods politely, wondering what her father’s favorite place in the Vale was. He always spoke of it and Lord Arryn so fondly. For a moment she imagined what it would be like if he still lived, if they could share the Vale together. 

“He was fostered here with Ned Stark,” Mya continues, passing her the wineskin. “Your lord father, he was fostered with the family of Ned Stark’s wife, Lady Catelyn. She was a Tully of Riverrun. I met her once.” Mya fixes her blue eyes on Sansa, and Sansa forces herself not to squirm away. “She had the prettiest red hair I ever did see.”

Sansa looks down; a lock of dyed hair falls across her forehead. “Did she?”

“Terrible thing what happened to her and her son. Well, to their whole house really. All those Starks wiped out.” Sansa shivers as Mya’s rough hand closes atop hers. “Don’t you think so, Alayne?”

“Yes,” she manages to choke out.

Mya pulls away, leaning back on her elbows. “Your hair’s got a bit of red to it.”

She takes several long swallows, the wine burning her throat. “I don’t think so.” 

“Hmmm. Must just be the light.” Mya lies back, tugging at Sansa’s cloak. “Watch the clouds with me, Alayne.”

She stretches out beside her friend, staring at the dark clouds rolling in from the North. When they were small, she and Robb would do this, picking out shapes in the clouds and making up stories about them. It feels like another time, another _life_. She closes her eyes to hide the tears welling there.

For a moment, she does not recognize the sensation of lips against hers. It is gentle and the men who have stolen kisses were anything but; Sansa thinks she should protest, thinks ladies don’t do such a thing.

But she’s just a bastard girl now, so she kisses Mya back and hopes some of Mya’s hope rubs off on her.


End file.
